


ȹ

by yomiyomi64



Category: Aztec Religion, Greek and Roman Mythology, Japanese Mythology, Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, Child Abuse, Drama, F/F, F/M, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Other, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Lives, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Reincarnation, Romance, Tragedy, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10834314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yomiyomi64/pseuds/yomiyomi64
Summary: Uzumaki Naruto never imagined he'd meet a god. Or, in which Sasuke is worth it and Naruto is not so different from Tsunade when it comes to gambling.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! First fic on here, though I've got a couple (shitty) ones on FF.net under Ms.GrinAndCry. Anyway, this is mostly experimental and there's not much of a plot at the moment; I will also ignore canon for the most part 'cause it's a trainwreck. Anyway, hope you enjoy.

1

Naruto knows why the girls find Sasuke beautiful, because he too has often looked at him and felt like dying.

ȹ

            He is six going on seven when he sees the boy with raven hair sitting at the edge of the dock. His skin is as pale as the moon, and Naruto thinks that if he could touch him, the moon, he would be cold too. Sasuke is looking out into the ocean, soft hair willowing out messily. The set of his small mouth is firm, and stern, and very, very contained. From across the dock, behind the barricade, Naruto recognizes the restrain for what it is – a form of rebellion against the village, against the world, against the universe.

            He has, of course, heard the stories – a boy twice his age who forsook blood and love and friendship for power, for solitude. Naruto himself, human sacrifice in more ways than he can imagine at this age, really cannot bring himself to understand why someone would forsake these precious bonds – bonds which he has sought out for himself, which have been denied to him, and which he has envied…

  He feels an odd connection with this boy, who sits alone on rainy days and looks out into the sea. They are both so, so alone, and so, so angry. He wants to go up to him and say, “Hey! My name is Uzumaki Naruto, and I want to be loved. Let’s be friends!”

But there are people here, who look at him and Sasuke differently, and who would no doubt try to ruin something before it starts. It’s beginning to pour now, and he really should get going anyway…

He thinks as he walks away that he sees the other boy turn to glance back at him, but by then it is too late, and he is gone.

ȹ

He is twelve when he wakes up in the hospital, bandaged and a newly-minted genin in the face of betrayal. Iruka-sensei is still in the hospital, and he is on his way out, to the Academy, to his new life. He knows what team he will be on before he gets there.

“YATTA!” Sakura joyfully screams when it is revealed she’s in the same team as Sasuke, who looks as disinterested as ever. She and Ino exchange glares, and Naruto, who has an image to maintain, also celebrates loudly when it is said that he too will be part of Team Seven.

Something happens, much of which he doesn’t remember, before it’s just the three of them alone in that room, awkward, hopeful, and sulking; always alone, the three of them, or the two of them, or maybe just him…

ȹ

Except it isn’t just him anymore, because at the end of _his_ lighting hands, he grips the pale arm desperately, unaware that the large gaping hole inside himself has been there for quite a while. He can’t speak, for the blood he’s coughing up keeps coming back into his mouth and choking him.

“Sasuke,” he tries to say, “ _Sasuke.”_

Sasuke is trembling, but his face remains neutral. Orochimaru is watching from a distance away, and Tsunade is screaming shrilly somewhere to his left, and Jiraiya is just lying there behind him, dead. Sakura is trying her best to heal the dead Jiraiya’s body, but he is dead, you see, very much dead and there’s nothing she or anyone can do a damn thing about, and anyway, Sasuke is here, and that’s all that matters, because they’ve found him, they’ve _finally found Sasuke_ , even if he’s not the same as he was ten years ago…

He swallows enough blood to get a word out, and what comes out is a jumble of “Sasuke, I have always loved you”s and “Sasuke, I’m sorry, please come back”s, that manage to tear a sob out of Sasuke’s gritted teeth. There’s a lotus of blood that’s blossomed on his chest, that keeps spreading, and when he looks into Sasuke’s eyes again he sees the sharingan has evolved.

“Sasuke,” he breathes out through lungs that rattle with the sound of death, “Sasuke, you know… felt about you, since that day almost…still a fucken idiot, fucken unbelievable… owe me big-time, you piece of… **_Teme_** , don’t you dare… love… another.”

And he descends into the void.

.

.

.

ȹ

There is nothingness, then there is the cold, then there is the darkness, and among the darkness, a dim light, like a stray beam of moonlight who sequesters itself into the night.

Was death not the end?

**_Boy_ **

Something echoes all around him, or perhaps inside him, and feeling returns to his self as he shivers.

**_Boy_ **

**_Come Closer_ **

He’s not sure where the voice is coming from, but he floats, or wobbles, or somehow makes his incorporeal way over to the beam of light until he realizes it is not light, or fire, or anything of that nature, but rather a mirror, and he is looking at himself, into himself, in all his soulful naked glory.

**_Yes,_** the voice says ** _, This Is Indeed You._**

Beside the mirror, he can just about make out the smoky, shape-shifting form of a curvy, willowy woman, of a dark, dark contradiction, of an obscurity more profound than his surroundings. She seems to step closer, and with every step, tendrils of smoke, of fog, cascade upwards, and downwards, and sideways…

This is what it must be like to be a god, he thinks. _This_ is what people surely call gods.

**_Indeed_ **

**_This One Goes By Many Names_ **

**_Some Have Called Me Chaos_ **

**_Others Have Called Me Death_ **

**_Still, Some Call Me Mother_ **

**_But This One Calls Itself Lady Night_ **

**_This is Nyx_ **

Naruto’s stomach, or what thinks may have been a stomach in his current shape, gives an unpleasant lurch, and before he knows it, he is human again, and naked, and cold, and suddenly very, very afraid.

“What do y-you want?” He asks, all false bravado and pretenses gone.

The smoke woman Nyx is standing in front of him, feet black and bare and perfect, smooth as marble and unscarred, untouchable.

**_Nyx Comes To Bargain_ **

**_Nyx Has Taken A Special Interest_ **

**_In You and Uchiha Sasuke’s Many Destinies_ **

**_This Is My Proposal_ **

Naruto listens carefully, knowing full-well that that what is being offered is unnatural, impossible, and unwise. Still… Naruto’s always known why the girls find Sasuke beautiful, because he too has often looked at him and felt like dying.

Repeatedly.

**_Very Well_ **

**_Uzumaki Naruto_ **

**_Nyx Will Be Watching_ **

His body feels hot. And then cold. And then, the darkness slowly dissipates, like drain water down a sewer, and as the light reaches out with hungry arms, the Lady Night blesses him, or curses him, and everything is engulfed by the overwhelming brightness of a star that burns him out of existence and into another life.


	2. 2

2

    Sarutobi Hiruzen curses loudly as a spike of chakra erupts brightly from Minato’s direction. The boy is young, strong, and determined, but he is also alone, vulnerable, and naïve. He recognizes the murky purple miasma that surrounds Konoha’s upper-east district for what it is— a forbidden jutsu, one which he can barely recall Jiraiya telling the boy not to use.

   “Croc, Beetle; get whatever medics you can find, fast. Salamander and Panther, you’re with me!” His Anbu guard disperses, and he, Salamander, and Panther shunshin their way across the ruined portion of town, towards the Kyuubi. From their position, they can see the Kyuubi’s terrible chakra cloak erode oxygen molecules into water; acidic rain that burns the asphalt at their feet keeps them away, left to witness an uncertain future, or end. The beast has gone slack, chained down by what he thinks are Kushina’s chakra chains, and from where he and his guard stand, he can smell the pervading scent of rot and hot death.

   “Minato! Kushina!” He yells. Behind Minato’s back a ghastly figure glistens in and out of existence, a skeleton drenched in scales of deep murder red and cloaked in robes of silk darkness.

_Shinigami_ , Hiruzen suddenly realizes. A sick twist at the pit of his stomach makes him want to lose his lunch, but movement from the god of death paralyzes him and his guards, who are having a hard time standing in the face of the unnatural. _It is one thing to be the God of Shinobi,_ he thinks to himself rather desperately, _and altogether different thing to be the God of Death._

   The figure’s skeletal face turns upwards towards the sky which has become charcoal gray with clouds of smoke and fox-fire. Skeleton teeth clatter together as they disentangle themselves from their respective roofs, and the shinigami’s mouth expands in a horrific display of aphotic totality.

   “ ** _Mother_** ,” it croaks, a voice like that of the lost emanating from the void where its mouth should be, “ ** _What are you playing at now?”_**

   It seems to wait for an answer, and when none comes, it simply inclines its head down in pensive silence. Meanwhile, Minato’s started to cough up blood, Kushina’s trembling arms hold tightly onto her still baby, and the Kyuubi has regained some mobility.

   “Who has summoned me here today, and for what purpose?” The God of Death intones. Behind him, the Kyuubi snarls, and Sarutobi curses himself for his uselessness in the face of calamity.

   “It was I,” Minato’s weak voice answers, “And I have summoned you here because I need your help. I need to,” he coughs, blood flying from chapped lips, “s-seal that b-beast behind you.”

   The shinigami considers him in silence. For a long minute, all Sarutobi can make out is Kushina’s increasing panic and her trembling voice which says, “Minato, our son isn’t moving,” before she dissolves into a heap of quiet grief. The Kyuubi gnashes its teeth together, snarls, and with the strength that truly makes him the strongest of the bijuu, momentarily breaks free from death’s claws to plunge a tail into Kushina’s open back.

   Sarutobi closes his eyes in pain and makes a wounded noise at the back of his throat when the squelch of pierced flesh and muscle rings across the field. When he opens them again, he’s staring at an embraced couple on the threshold of death.

   “Very well,” the shinigami suddenly decides, something mysterious and considering glinting in the abyss of his eyes, “I shall grant you this. But in return, I will have you.”

   Minato and Kushina are whispering into each other’s ears, quiet murmurs of lament and regret and loss and impotence which he isn’t privy to and which he hopes he never comes to know. The shinigami reaches out his red bony claws above their heads, and from his disjointed maroon hands a scythe larger than a man wills itself into existence. As it raises the blade above its head, Kushina holds the baby to her bosom, kisses his forehead in baptism, whispers “ _Naruto_ ,” and then the blade comes down, hard.

ȹ

    Naruto is on fire. This sort of heat is different from the ones he knows; it is not like Sasuke’s Fireball Jutsu, or Itachi’s Amaterasu, nor like the Kyuubi’s unique brand of fox-fire. This is so much more terrible, so much more worse, and for a second he thinks he’s flown into the sun, because his skin feels like melting wax, and he wants nothing more than to plunge back into the frigid clutches of the darkness like a drowning man.

   He feels hot, hot, hot, and so very small. He can feel the skin on his naked body peel back layer by layer, exposing soft flesh and organ tissue. Naruto screams then, a shrill and strident noise that pulls at his vocal chords painfully. His skin begins to knit itself back together quickly, paper-thin layer after paper-thin layer, before it is burned off his body again, and again, and again. A smoldering, suffocating pressure enters through his chest, and he can feel his ribs break and his lungs implode. He chokes on his own vomit and blood, and he can’t even scream anymore, because the orb that is being sealed inside him is so vile, so repugnant, so _much_.

   He has lost all concepts of time, of lucidity. He thinks he can smell ozone, or piss, or blood, who knows, before distant yells finally register. For a split second he goes for his kunai thinking he’s in the middle of battle again, that Team Seven needs him and he has to get his pathetic ass up, but then there are no kunai, and his hands are too small anyway, and what the hell, so is the rest of his body…

   Somebody that feels vaguely familiar approaches him and he opens his eyes. He can’t see very well, so he tries to speak, but all that comes out is a strange gurgle that leaves him puzzled and slightly embarrassed. The figure kneels close, and suddenly there are people near him, dozens of them, all of them wary and afraid and suspicious.

   “Panther, Salamander, have Croc and Beetle arrived with the medics?” The voice asks, and Naruto almost chokes on his own bile again, because he _knows this person_.

   “No, Sarutobi-sama,” two twin voices answer. One of the voices, a woman perhaps, or a young boy, continues, “Should we proceed with the assumption that they will not arrive?”

   There is a quiet sigh from the ex-Hokage, a few seconds of silence, before he says, “Yes. Now, listen carefully. I need you to gather an Anbu team of five, and join me in my office. I will be taking little Naruto here for a medical examination, and as for Mi—the bodies, have the remains burned quickly and quietly. We will decide how to proceed once we’ve all rendezvous at the appointed place. Understood?”

   “Hai!” “ _Hai_!”

   “Good. Go.”

 

 

 


	3. 3

3

     He drifts in and out of consciousness over Lady knows how long. He sleeps and awakes, sleeps and awakes, repeatedly, for what seems like forever; all the meanwhile he is painfully aware of the hungry twinge in his stomach and the searing pain of regenerating scar tissue. On the moments when he is awake and somewhat sane, he reaches out with his pudgy arms (which were once well-toned and strong and _capable_ , he thinks morosely and disappointedly), trying to garner the guard’s attention. He is always dutifully ignored.

     The hokage comes by to visit him periodically, bringing with him some small gifts, little tokens for the village sacrifice, which might appease the old man’s conscience and let him sleep a little better. He brings him stuffed animals, colorful puzzles, squeaky toys, small nothings which no longer mean anything to him but that he otherwise appreciates. So are his days spent, with his internal clock running off the hokage’s visits and the Anbu guard’s shifts. Time crawls on slowly, days bleeding into weeks bleeding into months bleeding into years, his body and soul oddly at odds but otherwise fine. Eventually, he comes to be aware of the passage of time with the building of his chakra reserves, which expand uncomfortably fast; he wakes up some nights sweating, sore, unable to stay awake for long periods of time despite the fact that he is three, almost four years old. The old man hokage is starting to worry, Naruto knows. With every visit the hokage seems a little less bright, a little more like a cloud before a storm, and Naruto doesn’t really know how to make it stop, this being the first time he has been reincarnated, or sent back, or forward, or elsewhere, whichever it is.

ȹ

     The orphanage matron has given him his own room, a small secluded office at the far left of the main wing. He has a window, a coffee table, a bed, a mirror, a wardrobe; the walls are a faded mustard yellow, and the ceiling is stained with the mark of rain. He moves in on his fourth birthday, as a present from the hokage, a token of his trust in Naruto and his ever-growing independence. Naruto doesn’t have much in the way of material possessions, so the hokage orders the matron, a thin old woman of about sixty or so, with kohl-lined eyes and dark brown lips, to get him some clothes; she orders one of the maids to fetch him some clothes, and in the end Naruto does not get an orange tracksuit, but a burgundy one.

     The matron leaves the uniform neatly folded on his bed, but she does not leave the room. She looks at him carefully. Naruto fidgets a little, but keeps quiet. He has decided that this new life is a good place, time, reality to become a new person, if he is to set things right; to save Sasuke, Sakura, everyone… and so he leaves his old self behind. This new Naruto is quiet, almost demure. He looks down at his feet, and shuffles.

     “Marta.”

     Naruto startles, looks at the matron who is already exiting his room, and sputters a little before asking, “P-please treat me kindly, Marta-dono.”

     This too is different. Naruto spends the next couple of weeks getting used to Makeinu Orphanage, and its matron, the silent and overpowering Marta, who he did not have the pleasure to meet in his previous life. Naruto would be lying if he said he wasn’t even a little surprised with Marta. She is not like the previous matron he had been acquainted with; no, not at all. Marta is, as Naruto slowly comes to realize, unlike other civilians. She is strict like him, but not cruel like Dina, his other matron. She treats him just the same as the other kids.

     “Marta-dono?” He asks one 1st of November, after he has turned 5 and the worst of last night is gone. “Marta-dono? How…how come everyone hates me?”

     He is terribly curious. Plastering a miserable expression on his face, voice subdued with slightly trembling lips, he looks down at his feet and sniffles. Although he knows the reason, Naruto is a ninja, and ninja like to fish. Right now, what he needs is information: on Marta, the orphanage, the year, everything.

     Marta, who had previously been fixing his ripped shirt (courtesy of his fellow orphans, thank you very much), looks up from her needlework and considers him carefully. She sets aside needle and threat to look at him. Sighs. Beckons him over.

     “Naruto, I won’t ask why you think people hate you because I know you are a bright boy,” she starts once he has been settled on his lap, “But I will have to ask that you refrain from asking of me something I cannot divulge. If it will appease you, I will say this: there is nothing wrong with you. You are smart, tactful, a bit shy but otherwise brave to a reasonable level. I’ve seen you defend Makanu,” and she gives him a meaningful glance when he cringes at the memory of last week’s fight, “You’re not the problem, is what I want to say. Ok? People, as a group, are…unreasonable. You’ll understand when you get older.”

     And that’s that.

     He spends the next couple of days in Marta’s company, watching her and the other employees move around the house like ghosts; silent footsteps that turn no leaf nor make no sound upon old rotten wooden floors. He learns to cook from Tara, helps out Misuzu and Tirami with the laundry, follows the bookkeeper, Yasura-san, around the house, and attends the three hour long lessons that Marta gives every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. He sees the hokage maybe twice in the next eight months, and it surprises him a little when the second time he visits he feels nothing for a man he used to think of as family in a previous life—feels nothing but disdain, a cold stab of aversion for a man who has grown weak and impotent in his old age. Unsure of the changes that have overtaken him, Naruto decides that six is old enough to enter the Academy.

     “What?” Marta is frowning, black-rimmed eyes like embers in a fire. She sets down her tea.

     Naruto shifts nervously on his feet. He has to play his cards right. Marta’s like a force of nature which will absolutely not compromise. Taking a deep breath, he continues:

     “I said, I want to join the ninja Academy, Marta-san.”


	4. 4

4

     As it turns out, he didn’t have to worry too much about being listened to. Marta, he knows somehow intimately and positively, is not average—not civilian or ninja or wayward assassin, but rather something in between, someone who has looked at the world with cognizant eyes and recognized the murkiness, the shit, on both sides of the spectrums; a struggle of survival between slave and master, slave versus slave, master against master, endless bloody rains upon the corpses of kin and stranger alike that have tainted the earth with their avarice and sin. Sometimes he can see Marta’s weathered face shift into the face of youth and savagery, see the remnants of lethal and unequivocal rage at a world full of vermin and lies. He pictures her standing still and impenetrable amidst the throes of battle, face of smoky quartz glistening with the stink of human fat and sweat, impervious to the bloodshed that descends, twirls, and fades around her like waves of smoke and spirit. She looks young then, and fierce, _oh so fierce_ , fierce in a way Sakura and Tsunade never could because they too were infected by his own sickly sweet bouts of idealism—of lies. Idealism born of Konoha propaganda and patriotism. But not Marta. Marta’s foreign face shrouded by smokescreens of mirrors and sharp edges is the face of war; her kohl-lined eyes shining like undiscovered sun stones at the precipice of an abyss speak of over half a century of experience in the ways of men.

     Yes, of men. For Marta has repudiated all idealized, romantic notions of love. She has seen the true face of humanity the same way Naruto has, or imagines he has. Love is something sharp and caustic, something like the explosion tags of mustard gas Tenten used to favor. Marta’s survival is the survival of the downtrodden—the survival of women and queers and demons and scapegoats like him and his friends and his lovers. Hence, it is no wonder that upon the departure of those words— _like a sentence pronounced, accepted, and assimilated_ , he thinks a little blithely—she remains frozen not out of shock or anger but out of some old burst of contemplation and scheming, a little bleeding of her younger warrior days decorating her face into a mask of wolf-like starvation and patience.

     He does not move. Understanding that Marta needs time, he leaves her to her musings and heads towards the front yard, where Makeinu is helping the twins, Misuzu and Zusumi, bring in the most recent donations from Konoha’s General Charity. Tirami, the oldest Yamasato daughter and sister to Misuzu and Zusumi, steps out next to him and arches a brow.

     “Everythin’ ok, kid? Ya look like you’ve seen a ghost or somethin’.”

     Naruto cringes. “Y-yes. I was just thinking about, well, school…”

     Tirami snorts before ruffling his hair. “Jeez, Naru-chan,” she laughs, “Who would’ve thought you’d turn out ta be such a worry-wart, eh? I remember when you used ta be _this_ little,” Tirami motions with her hands, “and just would not stop crying.”

     Tirami, a sun-kissed woman of 23 years with russet hair dulled by hours of manual work out in the outskirts of the Konoha fields, has been a constant in his life since he could remember. After an accident with experimental machinery courtesy of Taki merchants, she lost most of her mobility in her right leg, leaving it a twisted, rotten mess that had to be amputated by the only medics the poor lower-class family could afford. Unlike the civilians who lived in downtown Konoha—and the ninja, of course—the civilians who inhabited the rest of Fire Country, like the Yamasatos, could not afford such luxuries like medical care, technology, or even a simple means of transportation like the 2000 yen rental of a shoddy carriage. After a series of civil wars and skirmishes at the borders of Fire Country, Tirami, along with her younger sisters Misuzu and Zusumi, were forced to leave their hometown in Yoneda for the much more expansive (and **_expensive_** ) Konoha. Apparently, down on their luck since the get-go and on the verge of resorting to selling their few valuables, the orphans were taken in by a mysterious woman: Marta.

     “Come on, kiddo,” Tirami said suddenly, breaking him out of his reverie. She quirked a smile at him before joining her sisters and Makeinu out in front, wooden leg crushing the leaves at her feet.

     Naruto joins them.

ȹ

    Today again like always always always he dreams of Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke…

_“Sasuke! You idiot! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!?!”_

_He’s cradling something heavy and soaking-wet in his arms, a body that shivers and clatters until its bones are windchimes and the meticulous pushing of keys. Sasuke is standing mere feet away from him, obsidian eyes glistening with the fervor of delirium and solitude which have always characterized him as both supernova and blackhole. Hinata is dying._

_And of course she would be dying. I mean. Why wouldn’t she? Sasuke has a thing for plummeting into people and carving a hole out the flesh that should guard hearts. I mean. Why wouldn’t he? Sasuke with the porcelain skin and the soft lips and long lashes and the smirk, the goddamn, fucken smirk. I mean. I mean._

_I mean, “Sasuke! You idiot! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!?!”_

_Right? He’s supposed to say something like that. Or perhaps he should rewind—_

_\--“Sasuke! You idiot! What the hell do you think you’re doing—what the hell do you think you’re doing just coming back here and smirking and smirking, and_

_what the hell do you think you’re doing, smirking, you bastard, you devil, you—_

_Sasuke! You idiot! What the hell—_

_What the hell!_

_What—_

_Sasuke, you idiot. What the hell do you think you’re doing? Smirking, when I know inside you cannot even move your lips because of disuse the same way that Hinata will no longer be able to open her eyes and admire me from a distance like I used to with you. Sasuke. You idiot. What the hell do you think you’re doing? You don’t even think about anything anymore least of all feel least of all love. Beautiful fatal eyes the shade of an ocean at night, now corrupted by the scarlet waters of revenge and sacrifice. You know, don’t you? I mean. Of course you do. Why wouldn’t you? You know that even right now as I hold this bleeding girl in my arms who I once contemplated in the darkness when her hair was as black as yours and whose skin glimmered as pearly as yours and who I never once loved nor liked nor even thought of as a friend, but merely a substitute—you know that even right now as the wound in her chest stops bleeding and her eyes fade into oblivion, that I have forgiven and forgotten the deed and that I love you more than the first time that my fingers curled around your throat and you let me._

_Yes. Sasuke._

_You idiot._

_What the hell do you think you’re doing to—_

_to_

_to_

_\--to me?_

_Time stops, and he stops thinking, the dream and the nightmare and the fantasy-hope all meshing together like the crushed watermelons at a festival that has been left forgotten a lifetime ago. He stops time._

_Stops time for Sasuke. Sasuke who he has loved—_ or perhaps the words is not loved because this is something more, something terrifying and grave, heavy and seedy like hotel sex and prostitution, gratuitous and tense like the explosion of desperate fox-chakra overtaking a Konoha of simpletons; this is like, like, god, he doesn’t even know— _and hated but loved through it all, despite the shortcomings, failures, and devastation. Because Sasuke is worth it._

_Because—_

_“Sasuke! You idiot! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!?!” He glances at Hinata, frantically trying to stop the blood but unable to, tearing at his jumpsuit to make an apocryphal tourniquet that is useless; glances at Hinata and Sasuke, Sasuke and Hinata, Sasuke and Sasuke and Sasuke and Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasukesasukesasukesasuke…_

     “Gr-argh!” He jolts awake at 3:47 at night and cannot go back to sleep, sweating, trembling with the fear of his own monsters that exist not because of the Kyuubi but out of his own selfishness and curse.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still no plot and gave up on formatting

 

5

 

Marta sends him off with a covenant made of expectations. He looks at her dusty, faded-red blouse, long maroon skirt with adorned with what may have been colorful squares a long time ago but which are now just small spots of color that hang at the edges of the fabric and fade the more he looks; looks at old sandals with worn soles and brings his gaze back to her eagle-sharp eyes, eyes that wait for his blood in promise and in duty.

He bows.

“Thank you, Marta-san!”

And he’s off.

 

ȹ

She hates school. And she hates boys, and Ami, and homework, and Iruka-sensei with his stupid smile when he says that Ami just wants to be friends with her when she knows good and well that Ami hates her and would not care if she dropped dead tomorrow or today.

Dragging her feet, petulant and anxious for another year of hair-pulling and tears, Sakura heads towards the Ninja Academy without so much as a glance behind her where her parents proudly wave her off.

What's so good about ninja, anyway? All ninja are bullies.

Hmmm... That's an interesting thought. Ninja _are_ bullies, aren't they? Yes. Yes, she knew this when and before she joined, knew it and was glad because if ninja were bullies and the Academy is where they go to become bigger and meaner, than Sakura doesn't want to be left behind, no. This is why she's here; she's here to grow mean and ugly so that Ami slug-face can suck it once and for all. Who cares if Sasuke-kun doesn't like her by the end of it? She can just stomp on him too like he stomped on her Valentine’s gift last year, the squelch of chocolate releasing an aroma of melancholy that made tears spring in her eyes before Ino could even smirk back at her.

Finding a renewed sense of purpose in her reasoning, Sakura sprints towards the Academy gates, ignoring Ino and Shikamaru and dog-boy before she enters the almost-packed classroom and settles at a table somewhere in the middle, away from dog-boy’s—Kiba’s?—range but close enough so she can properly see Iruka-sensei and the board.

“ALRIGHT,” Iruka-sensei bellows, hands on his hips as he eyes them all with a scowl. The classroom quiets down.

“Today we have a new student,” he says, and Sakura notices the way his lips tighten over the words, “and I expect _ALL_ of you to behave and treat him fairly.” He pauses, making eye contact with all of them before continuing, “I hope you all will help him catch up. Naruto-kun, please come in.”

The door opens, and a young boy with braided golden hair enters. He's sporting a burgundy jumpsuit, with a mesh-top under his jacket and standard ninja sandals. A black bandana keeps his braid in place, with thinner ribbons threaded into his hair. The first thing that comes to Sakura’s mind is that he’s tiny and looks like a girl. The boys’ eyes are a glinting shade of blue-grey that accentuate the darkness of his eye bags.

Iruka coughs.

“Naruto-kun, please take a seat where ever you like. There's a couple seats at the back of—ah, well…”

Before Iruka-sensei can finish talking, Naruto has already started moving, face expressionless as he heads towards the window table at the far right of the classroom. He settles himself in the corner seat, isolated from the rest of them but in a perfect position to watch them and join them if he wished.

Sakura frowns.

He's probably younger than her, maybe six or seven to her eight. She recognizes the shadows of malnourishment that are just starting to dissipate, like he's spent all his life in the desert without water or bread, hunting snakes and lizards and mice to keep the hunger at bay, probably trembling with thirst when there are no cacti around he can smash or cut to get some water. Maybe he’s a foreigner? He doesn't seem like a native, doesn't look like he belongs to the trees of Konoha that extend their wooden arms to the heavens in offering and worship--no; he looks like someone unaccustomed to greenery, flowers, and rain, like someone more apt to hide between the fogs of Kiri than in Konoha’s generous oaks.

Iruka-sensei starts class but no one pays attention. Even she, a top student, can’t help but be painfully aware of the boy who sits like a doll near the window. He looks strange, like a mirage perhaps, immobile but alive, all fine breathing and slow blinking as if from across a mirror. Now that he’s somewhat closer, Sakura can see that his hair is pretty long. She frowns. Probably longer than hers, although not as well-cared for (she hopes). Feeling slightly peeved that the newcomer looks girlier and prettier than her, she turns back to where Iruka-sensei is explaining the basic theory for tag seals.

“Chakra is not an artificial form of energy, like the kind that is given to us by lightbulbs or stoves,” he says, “It is more like sunlight and heat. As I explained earlier this semester, chakra is the basic ninja currency, if you will, that is used to make seals or form ninjutsus and genjutsus. Since today we’re doing tag seals, I want to show you all how to make some basic ones that you will need when you’re in an emergency and the like.”

Turning towards his desk, Iruka-sensei brings out a roll of sealing paper. He cuts a small piece off before turning back towards them.

“Now, look carefully. Right now, this is an ordinary piece of sealing paper, crafted from very fine beeswax and silk for the specific purpose of ingraining chakra in it. I will now channel some of my chakra into it.”

Grabbing the paper in between his thumb and index finger, a pale yellow glow of chakra envelops the paper before it is absorbed. Iruka-sensei grins, and looks at all of them.

“Now the paper is ready for sealing. Today we won’t focus too much on that since I want you all to get this down first. If you can’t imbue chakra in the paper, you will not be able to channel it into the ink or in the sigil. Alrighty! You each get three sheets. First row, come get your paper.”

Sakura waits patiently for her turn, annoyed that Ino-pig and Dog-Boy get to get theirs first. She sighs. She should’ve sat with Hinata in the first row, but she felt embarrassed to even attempt to speak to the Hyuga heir. She’s probably a snotty-nosed bully like Sasuke anyway.

“Fourth row, your papers!”

Surprised by where her thoughts have taken her, Sakura hurries to get in line. She ends up waiting behind Chouji and Shikamaru. Behind her, standing a little ways away from her and looking straight at the board, is Naruto. Sakura tries to ignore him, but can’t quite manage. She thinks the expression on his face is a bit creepy because it looks so empty.

She bites her lip. Maybe he’s not so bad. He’s probably just shy, right? I mean, it must be tough to move to a new place where you have no friends at all. Feeling assured by what she finds to be reasonable, Sakura takes a deep breath, before turning to face Naruto.

“Hi! I’m Haruno Sakura, and I just turned 8! I hope we can get along!”

Naruto blinks.

“I’m Uzumaki Naruto,” he says after a brief pause, “Pleasure to meet you.”

Sakura flushes with satisfaction. “If you want,” she musters some nerve to say, face still red, “I can help you with homework and stuff since you’ve missed the first month of school.”

Something flashes across Naruto’s eyes before she can pinpoint it. With a wan smile and a courteous half-bow, Naruto assents. “I would appreciate it.”

Sakura smiles and turns back to get her paper. See? He really isn’t that bad. Berating herself for her biases, she turns back to her seat, papers safely tucked away behind the confines of her hands.

They begin by channeling their chakra into the sealing sheets. Iruka-sensei paces across the room, occasionally yelling at Kiba or Yosuke for goofing around.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, freak?!” A sudden shriek echoes around the room, startling her out of her thoughts. Shocked, she turns to look behind her, where Takahashi is holding Shino by the scruff of his jacket. Takahashi shakes Shino violently, face red and lips pulled back in a snarl. Shino slightly frowns, before saying, “It was a mistake. Why? Because I thought I could do it without my kikaichu spilling through…”

“Takahashi! Unhand him right NOW!” Iruka-sensei yells, trying to make his way through the crowd that has suddenly gathered around the two boys.

But Sakura is not looking their way. Her gaze stands fixed on Naruto. Naruto, who has suddenly gone parchment-colored, face cold and frozen in time with eyes that look inwards and away, lips slightly parted, breathing through his mouth in little puffs of air that echo loudly in her head, small and rapid breaths like someone who has just escaped death by drowning.

They make eye contact, but she knows that he cannot see; looks at her with dead-fish eyes as if looking into and beyond, transcendental gaze affixed upon her soul before his eyes drift towards where Iruka-sensei is moving as if underwater towards Takahashi and Shino, Shino who also sees Naruto the way she is, sees Naruto not-looking at Sakura not-looking at Iruka-sensei not-looking at Takahashi but looking at Shino as if choking on his last words, desperate eyes and furious twitch at the corners of his open mouth twisting his face for a nanosecond into a mask fit for demons before it flattens and he steps forward, the only person moving this petite blond boy who is new yet not new, moving towards them deliberately but smoothly, a boy small and cherubic who is now lifting one slender arm towards Takahashi who has come within his grasp, and Iruka-sensei who is too far away, kept at a distance because he did not think to shunshin his way across the room—why should he? They were just kids doing kid things—but he was wrong, he should have done it, should have been swift because the stillness of Naturo’s face is unnatural and terrifying, a stillness unbroken by the sudden crack of Takahashi’s nose under Naruto’s colliding fist.

There is a bubble of silence that expands before it explodes and suddenly Iruka-sensei is there, pale-faced and frantic as he looks at the civilian boy who had been propelled two desks away and who now lay sprawled half-in half-out of a chair in mute shock. The teacher takes one look at Takahashi, then turns back to look at Naruto with his swollen and probably sprained wrist, glances over at Shino who for the first time in their lives looks surprised, before he pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs, and says, “Meet me outside. We will be going to the Hokage’s office.”

ȹ

Accompanied by Iruka-sensei’s irritated presence, Shino, Takahashi, and Naruto walk towards the Hokage’s office after the substitute teacher arrives to take over class for the day.

He doesn’t understand. Why? Well, because it is unreasonable. There are certain factors here that do not add up; threads left undisturbed which should be cut but for some reason cannot. First, of course, is Takahashi’s irrationality. It truly was a simple accident that prompted the sudden expulsion of his kikaichu onto Takahashi’s face. There was no logical reason as to why he should have felt disgusted or offended. If one wants to follow the path of shinobi, they must accept that training accidents will happen and the best thing to do is to recover and learn from them without grudges or contempt. Second, too, is the fact that the new student, Uzumaki-san, somehow felt compelled to attack Takahashi. Now, here, there are several spheres of fallacy that Shino has to explore. There is the fact, for example, that Takahashi has neither the guts nor the strength to truly abuse him. Then, there’s also the undeniable truth that Shino can defend himself. He’s not defenseless, nor is he fool enough to let someone like Takahashi attack him. Lastly, we have to explore the obvious, which is that these facts are visibly apparent, and hence, Uzumaki-san’s sudden bout of heroism, if it could be called that, was completely out of line, even a little offensive.

Does he look weak? Perhaps his pale complexion is the cause behind this confusion—for a confusion it is, having no logic or reason behind it—otherwise, he cannot truly know unless he asks Uzumaki-san. Which will probably get him nowhere at the moment, considering his peer has closed himself off from them as well as he can—

“The hokage will see you now, Iruka-kun.” The secretary, a so called Kotetsu, says.

Shino hides a cringe behind his collar.

His uncle will not be pleased.

They enter, and line up before the hokage, who hasn’t looked up in favor of signing some papers in front of him.

They stand in silence for a few seconds before he shuffles the papers away, takes off his glasses, and levels an unreadable gaze at them.

“Iruka-sensei tells me there was an altercation today.” He says, then pauses. He regards them with an arched brow.

“Would any of you care to elaborate? Jong-in, can you tell me what happened?”

Takahashi cringes at the use of his full name, before he frowns and scoffs.

“Aburame set his bugs on me, and then pretty boy over there,” he jabs his thumb towards Naruto, “came outta nowhere and punched me.”

“Is that so? And you, Aburame Shino? I never took you for a trouble-maker. Your uncle speaks well of you.”

Shino turns abruptly towards the hokage, mildly frowning before he admits, “I didn’t do it on purpose, hokage-sama. We were doing chakra manipulation on seals and my… kikaichu spilled out without my meaning to. I apologized, but Takahashi…” He frowns, looking for words before he shakes his head and continues, “He grabbed me by the collar of my jacket. Then, well.”

He glances at Naruto.

The hokage sighs, and Iruka-sensei follows suit, before sharing a glance with the leader of the nation.

“Alright, I can get a pretty good picture of what was happening here. However,… what I don’t understand,” and his voice lowers by two octaves, suddenly disapproving and worried, the same way his late grandfather spoke before he passed, “What I don’t understand, is why you, Naruto, decided to attack Takahashi.”

The question hangs in the air.

The boy who until recently had only stared ahead, almost unblinkingly and akin to a ceramic doll, looks owlishly at the hokage, before his gaze drifts away again.

“Naruto?”

“… He called him a freak. Didn’t like it.”

The hokage regards him silently, little wisps of sadness seeping into his eyes before they disappear under the mask of leadership, duty, nationalism.

“Naruto-kun, I’m afraid that is not a valid reason. I’d like to speak with you privately. As for now, Iruka-sensei, it seems Takahashi will need to head to the clinic before he can come back to school. After, I want both Shino and him to write a report on the importance of information-gathering, and how this skill could have prevented this situation. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you, hokage-sama,” they bow, before exiting the room, leaving Naruto alone with the God of Shinobi but not before Shino glances back one last time and sees something like a mirage of smoke before the door closes on him and the figure disappears.

ȹ

Do you not sometimes feel like snakes slither around your ankles?


	6. 6

6

     Do you not sometimes feel like snakes slither around your ankles? I do. I feel it all the time; when I wake up and before, swimming in the clouds of nightmares decades-old. Thin, slender snakes, black and red or yellow and red, all the colors swirling and dripping into the floor, staining my calves and the hem of my skirts. Do you not sometimes feel like snakes slither around your ankles? Today right now yesterday tomorrow I shall feel them forever, not just around my ankles anymore, but flowing upwards, wrapping their sinewy bodies around my own, squeezing and feeling and touching until they reach my mouth and they shove themselves down my throat. Sometimes the snakes hiss from within me and whisper things that dead men would shiver at if they could. I am haunted by them, these worm reptile creatures ancestors of the old dragons and yokai who now I can no longer see nor feel or smell. But the snakes are different. They’re not the same as the Ones Who Lived Before, but they are something similar that have evolved to survive in this earth infested by the encroachments and shit of mankind. Do you not—do you not sometimes feel like snakes slither around your ankles? Crawl up your cunt? Swim around your intestines, tear into your uterus, poison your lungs? I do. Feel them all the time, like now, when this old shinobi man is staring at the boy with eyes I am intimately familiar with, eyes of regret and sadness hardened by a lifetime of tragedy that has left him impotent and senile. Ahhhhh. The snakes. Their rattles are shaking, mighty and loud like the shrill cries of the rats they skewer with their venom-dripping fangs. Hissing loudly and slithering faster and rougher, scales brushing against sensitive skin leaving it raw and reddened. The wrinkles on his dark face get deeper by the day, the stench of old-man flesh permeating the room and distracting me. I want to kill him. I want to kill him. She wants to kill him. Yes, this man who in times past was a good friend but who upon her fall and the fall of her nephew distanced himself and denied her the memories of old promises made in the peak of exuberant youth. Words have no meaning, now or tomorrow, people like him who know not what the essence is but tackle it head-on through labels and categories will never know, never. There is nothing in language, poetry, or art that can redeem them; mankind has been doomed and she will make sure to carry out the purge.

ȹ

     “Naruto-kun,” the hokage is saying, disappointed and wrinkled face set in the furrows of worry and concern, “Please, tell me exactly what happened. Why did you punch that boy? Have you met Aburame-kun before??”

     Naruto steals a glance toward where Marta is standing a little ways away, silent as the grave but eyes loud and ablaze with some old shadow of something terrifying and unforgiving. He quickly turns back to the hokage, and after a brief pause, shrugs. “It just didn’t sit well with me, j—hokage-sama.” The hokage’s face is unreadable. He stares at him for a few unnerving seconds, reminding Naruto that although this man is not his jiji the same way he used to be the first time around, all warmth and comfort and safety hidden under a thin layer of steel, he is still dangerous—dangerous enough to earn the title of God of Shinobi. Sighing, the hokage says, “Very well, Naruto. But I hope next time you don’t get so carried away. Takahashi-kun’s father isn’t exactly the kindest or most forgiving of men.” Naruto nods, filing that information at the back of his mind for later use.

     The hokage looks at Marta for a brief second, something frozen in his gaze that Naruto can’t quite place, before he gives a curt nod and dismisses them. They exit the premises, and take the stairs.

     Through some of the windows, Naruto can see that twilight is quickly upon them, the vestiges of the old sun like the dying embers of an eclipse, seeping into the city with the grace of flowing water in the hands of a child. Russet and violet hues stream across the sky and hide between the arms of Konoha’s trees, peeking out softly, shyly, to be admired from afar and never to be touched, fated to exist as a thing seen yet unattainable. The exit the Administration Building, and walk in silence back towards the orphanage, where the warmth of human life and companionship awaits them, a fallen star amidst the rubble of broken dreams and illusions. Marta is silent next to him, and though he feels slightly unsettled, he is relieved. She exudes a warmth and scent of smoke that shelters him from the whispers and glares of the townsfolk. Her breathing, a low rustle of the soul, is therapeutic.

     This small moment of peace, as they walk side-to-side in the silence of the settling darkness, allows him the luxury of thought and reflection. What are his plans? How can he plan for something he doesn’t even know he can have? He came back for Sasuke. The problem: saving Sasuke. The solution? He doesn’t know. He has lived and died to save this man-boy, defeated egomaniacs and the bourgeois and common street-thugs, he has killed the Akatsuki, and Obito, and Madara, and everything and anyone else that came after him and his friend, his lover. He knows their strengths and weaknesses as well as he knows his own name. He is confident in his ability to save Sasuke from whatever fool thinks themselves capable of hurting him. What he doesn’t know, though, is how to save Sasuke from himself. He has done his math. He has a little over a year to prevent the Uchiha massacre. More than the physical power to stop it, Naruto needs one thing: Personality. 

ȹ

_oh_

_oh_

_oh_

_everything is painful and everything hurts and you were_ right

_you were you were_ right _, Sasuke_

_we should just send the world into an abyss_

_all of them_

_all the worlds_

_oh, Sasuke_

_oh, beautiful_

_I saw you today for the first time in a lifetime and I could not bear to stare too much lest I crack, no, just sitting there, you, young and lovely and fierce, so fierce, Sasuke, so fierce! So lovely! Like a wraith. I have always told you how good you looked under the moonlight, but have I ever told you how you look under the sun? Radiant, blissful, happy Sasuke. You look like an old god, baby, an old god. Brilliant. Overwhelming. Electrifying._

_Oh oh oh_

_Oh, Sasuke. Oh, baby. Look, let me tell ya, ok, let me tell ya how’s gonna go down, alright? Just, bear with me, yeah? Anyway, this is what we’re gonna do, ok? We’re gonna be ok, ok? I’m gonna do what I should have done but didn’t because of my fear and ego and naivety; I’m gonna burn every bridge and its castle and its people, and I’m gonna raid every town and fuck every woman and child and peasant on their land and then I’m gonna make them kiss my feet and I’m gonna save ya, baby, I’m gonna save ya. You better believe it, dattebayo._


	7. 7

7

 

          Something is brewing inside the dragon’s belly. He knows it. Knows it well. Sojiro Takahashi is no fool. In the past seven weeks, three days, and fourteen hours, the civilian has learned the art of oracle-reading. He reads his son’s bruises like a Jashinist reads the stars. Traces each scar like a wolf sniffing out blood, soothes each wound with the patience and the stoicism of a monk.

          Here is what he reads in between the bits of flesh and bone: _we have unleashed the wrath of a god._   _Something big this way comes._

          Something big.

          Big and overwhelming like the radiance of a certain youth, a child ripped from his mother’s womb and left bleeding at the mercy of the woods. A child that, having been taken in by wolves and raised alongside a pack of loyal savages, has claimed his birthright as the king of cunning.

          “Otou-san,” his son one day asks, as they take cover from the beginnings of a storm in the comfort of Jeun’s teashop, “what...what **_is_** he?”

          Sojiro looks at his son quietly, before he looks up at the sky. The rain cascades down. It’s three in the afternoon, and the sweltering heat is persistent even despite the humidity, or perhaps because of it. He thinks about his son’s question, and before he can answer, something like a thunderbolt strikes through him, paranoia or anxiety made physical in a moment of weakness. Across the street, a glint of quicksilver catches his eye, and he stops.

          It is the fox.

          Holding conversation with who he takes to be several genin or what may be a ragtag group of tokubetsu jounin, the fox with the golden head seems to be making a particularly interesting point. The youngest of the lot, surrounding him in a semicircle, pay him their undivided attention. In particular, a pink-haired girl and boy with the signature Nara slouch seem to be both amused and incredulous, teetering on the verge of awe and admiration before a boy that although quiet and polite, manages to be sharp and unrelenting. The tokubetsu jounin, a woman in her late teens or early twenties, and two men who sit at the edge of their seats wary but curious, watch as the fox gives a speech on the benefits of self-sustainability for non-clan affiliated ninja. His discourse is soft, but not dispassionate, and he seems to be edging closer to the woman as he speaks, arms and hands fully displayed, wide blue eyes depthless like the ocean, an ocean so vast and so dark, an ocean in which she has already drowned. The fox puts a palm flat against his chest, open face and deep hot gaze holding now not just the young lady’s eyes but slowly taking in everyone inside the ramen shop, from the quiet Aburame boy standing a little behind the group to Teuchi’s silently moved face, past the older kunoichi’s pensive stare and straight towards him.

          Like a ray of lightning, and like a ghost, he is almost struck by the phantom of a pain.

          “Otou-san? Are you ok?”

          Sojiro looks down at his son, the boy his wife died to bare, bleeding over floorboards for over three hours before succumbing in between bitter wails and curses to the darkness, and says, “He is the one that, through his sickness, shall cleanse us all.”

ȹ

          In the course of a few days, Naruto familiarizes himself with not just his fellow Academy students--Sakura, Shikamaru, and Shino in particular--but manages to approach a couple of the older shinobi, like Anko and her troupe. Genma still won’t go anywhere near him, but at least he’s not kicking him to the curb yet. This, however, is not enough.

            And so Naruto does what Naruto does best: he acts. Life, he decides, or perhaps he remembers, is one big joke. Life is a joke, a comedy to be performed in a grand stage at the expense of his dignity and humanity, a carefully crafted caricature made to please the masses. So while he makes friends throughout the village and creates connections that may one day be important, he makes plans--hundreds of them, countless of them.

            He runs errands for Inoichi Yamanaka’s flower shop, makes deliveries to the Nara compound, provides information to Shino and his father on the strange beetles nesting behind his apartment, brings fresh produce to and fro Sakura’s parents to Ichiraku, and he thinks; thinks about betrayal and love and the feel of warm blood coursing through his fingers like an overflowing river. He learns and relearns the skills of a past and current life, absorbs information which he would have struggled with before if he did not have Marta-san and his friends. There’s something tugging at the back of his mind, a sense of foreboding that hangs heavy around his neck, but he ignores it, dismisses it as well before it sets in and puts him on edge. He spends his days with Shino, Sakura, and Shikamaru when he is not with Marta-san, sparring or talking or sitting in quiet companionship near each other, content with simply being and gazing at the large expanse of blue skies above them.

            And then, he wakes up one early morning, when the bluejays dare not even sing, and realizes that he must soon set the pendulum in motion.

ȹ

            Marta awakens abruptly to the feel of heady pressure inside her body, and stares into the darkness of her room, unmoving. The orphanage is silent as the grave, and had it not been for the fact that only a couple hours ago she personally had put the last of the children to sleep, she would have believed that the building was nothing more than an old memory of the past. Outside her room, darkness prevails, as does the cold and the silence. And yet, here she is. Awake. The predator’s instinct in her is alert.

            Has someone come for one of her wards? Has someone entered her den?

            No, that is not right. There is no one here that shouldn’t be…

            And yet. And yet… her heart pounds savagely against her ribcage, her lips sneer back without her meaning to, and something that feels like fear settles firmly against her breast.

            Yes. Something this way comes.

 ȹ

            _A deity needs sacrifices made to their name, made of bone or blood and stone and this one is for you, Sasuke, and this one is for **me** , Sasuke. Tonight is a long night and tonight I take the blood I need and the blood you would have loved to bathe in. I give in and _we _give in, I bring the ones who shall worship the beauty of my idol before you, so you may bless them and baptise them and join us all in holy matrimony, bound for all eternity in the heaviness of tonight and the memories that will be made to fade away._

            _fade away_

_it’s alright, Sasuke, it’s alright_

_soon the eyes which have damned you and your blood-brothers and sisters will no longer be the seed of discord, for I and_ we _will erase the root of all evil_

_yes_

_yes, Sasuke, yes_

_ahhh, sweet Lady of the Night, sweet Mother of All, look unto me your son kindly and generously as I bring you the head and the eyes of the Wolf Spider and a promise made in blood and flesh between three children of the Dark_

_ahhh, sweet Lady of the Night, look unto our works and let us not despair_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no formatting and little to no editing, once again.

8

_three children of the Darkness_

_bound in holy matrimony_

_blessed by their deeds and the deeds of their blood_

_in the name of the Lady of the Night_

_Ameen_

ȹ

_11 weeks ago_

Shikamaru knows genius when he sees it. It’s something that looms above him all the time, like smoke, and something he has trained himself to recognize. He sees it cling to the Uchiha heir like a curse, and leech off the White Fang’s son. He knows ( _and loathes_ ) the way it surrounds his father.

So when the blue-eyed boy enrolls in class, sits quietly by the window, punches Takahashi, and comes back the next day with the unrepentant ease of a distant king, he knows that genius lives on in him too.

And there’s something sickly about it, something fascinating and heartbreaking that in all of his seven years on Earth he hadn’t come across. It’s in the way he holds kunai, thumb against sharp edges and forefinger on leather handles. It’s in the way he walks, with a silent grace he’s only seen in jounin and a predator’s dominion over himself. It’s on his sense of gravity, the way he pulls Shino and Sakura towards him without even meaning to, without concern for who they are or what they are not. He watches with growing curiosity as the circle gets bigger, with Kiba and Hinata and some weird jumpsuit-wearing boy outside of class joining in one day, then Ino and Chouji during home-ec, until he comes to realize a couple weeks later that he has taken a position between Sakura and Shino, the first and only other kids that seem to just click with Naruto, the only ones that understand and admire and even love that ill-fated boy who’s lived in a village where orphans and sacrifices are something to be discussed at home as vermin and in public as charity causes.

Shikamaru is too young to know what love is _(he is, he really really really is, he tells himself every night before the clock hits 3 and he has to cover his face with a pillow because no matter where he is or what he does, all he can think and see and yearn for is the solace and the wisdom of the Golden Boy)_. Shikamaru is too lazy to act upon the shadow of sentiment. He is too smart to let feeling and quasi-butterflies dictate the game of life.

But Shikamaru is just a boy, and as such, he is too hopeful, too weak to know that Naruto lives in a city of fog.

ȹ

They spend their time all three together always speaking softly beneath the great oaks, always whispering of things to come, things of desire and hope.

Sakura comes up to them one day with a split lip and downcast eyes and Naruto’s eyes darken to an eerie tungsten hue. Shino’s lips tighten and his beetles buzz and thrum and suddenly he feels the thundering of their blood within the soil like an army rising from their death-beds. A shaky breath escapes his lips when Sakura begins to cry

_cry cry cry_

cry with tears of iron-hot rage and impotence

cry tears of shame in the face of a never-ending cycle

And he can’t help it; he feels something prickle at the corner of his eyes, and he’s not quite sure whether it is bone-white rage or the kindling of fear like a lonesome, dancing desert candle that trickles wax upon the sands.

Sakura, stupid Sakura, poor and weak and stupid, pretty Sakura. Sakura who despite knowing better still hopes to make amends, amends to people like Ami and her lapdogs. What amends does Sakura need to make, anyway? Shikamaru knows that Sakura is extroverted by nature; the timidity with which she carries herself is unnatural, the result of years of bullying and lack of adult aid. Sakura doesn’t need to apologize for anything. She only follows her natural inclination to talk, to speak, to laugh.

She’s gotten better these last few weeks, together with Naruto, who encourages her and rivals her, and Shino, with whom she converses nonstop about matter and life. Shikamaru, too, had been able to uncover her enthusiasm for philosophy and games, but now.

Now they’re here, all of them.

They watch, something in their stomachs frothing forth, as a drop of blood falls from Sakura’s cherry lips to the mud at their feet.

Besides him, the Fox growls.

ȹ

Ami doesn’t know what hits her. She had been waiting for Ikuto-kun near the playground, fixing her braided hair and smoothing her skirt, when she felt invisible threads around her ankles, around her neck. There was a pressure, a surge of warmth, a feathersoft _pop_ , and then there was nothing, just the phantom of a dream.

She gets up, dizzy, knees crackling together from sudden nausea, when she hears the mellow “Ami-chan?” from Ikuto-kun behind her, and she immediately brightens, dusting off her clothes. He’s so handsome in his plaid pants, and maroon blouse, so refined… and she can’t take it anymore. If it hadn’t been for that stupid pink-haired brat yesterday, she would have gotten to confess already, but. What the hell. Now’s as good a time as any.

Ikuto-kun is looking at her curiously, a slight frown sitting upon his perfect marble brow.

He asks, “Ami-chan? Are you ok? I saw you fall from across the street…”

Ami’s face burns an interesting shade of red, but she composes herself. She’s been waiting for this for almost a year. She won’t let anything get in her way. Ikuto-kun must know! And then, finally, _finally_ she’ll be a step closer to achieving her dreams as a kunoichi.

She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and says, “Ikuu _uughhhhhnng_!!”

Ikuto-kun stares wide-eyed at her, and she turns purple in horror. What is wrong with her? How could she do something so embarrassing in front of the most popular boy in school?!

“Ikut _tttnnnnnnng aheerghhh!”_

No, no. This can’t be happening.

Ikuto-kun scowls, and says, “Ami-chan? This isn’t funny. What are you…?”

“Ir _mphhh aiierrrh yinnng! Ahhhr, iiiknnnng?”_

Ikuto sneers in disgust.

“Honestly?” he says, stepping away from her frantic babbling, “I don’t know what I was expecting. Goodbye, Ami-san.”

No, she wants to say. No, no. No! Come back. Ikuto-kun? Ikuto-kun! Help me!

I can’t, I can’t speak. Ikuto-kun?

But the boy has gone, and Ami is left standing there, alone. The playground, strangely enough, is deserted. She feels a cold sweat build at the back of her neck.

“ _Kkkkkkkn?”_

But there is no one here. The children have gone. Ikuto walked away.

And her voice?

Her voice was taken and locked away by a little beetle, an eel, and a mischievous little fox. So that it cannot ever again cut their favorite blossoming tree.

ȹ

Six days after Ami loses her voice and is suddenly removed from the Academy, Naruto comes to him shrouded in the loveliness of darkness. He wears robes of onyx silk, walks barefoot amongst the smoke, and leads him into the Shadowlands.

There are wisps of light. The sun is a shining crown upon his head, and the stars are the dying embers of his eyes.

“Shikamaru-kun,” he whispers. “Shikamaru-kun. Shikamaru-kun.”

( _Yes,_ he wants to say _, yes, yes yes yes, call me. I’m here, always_. _I’m waiting in between the cracks of night, waiting in the crevice of the forest, waiting forever at the edge of tomorrow for the kiss of the Fox upon my forehead. Bless me. Take me. Lead me. Bless me, take me, lead me. Pull me from damnation when I drown. Grasp my arm._

_My arm_

_Pull me_

_When I drown in the shadows of the Styx, make sure to not forget me,_

_Call my name and grasp my arm_

_Help me, I am a drowning man)_

But Naruto stands before him, dignified, a statue carved of marble and topped with gold. His hands grasp his forearms, claws digging into skin until blood is drawn. His shadow grows, consumes, hoards light and darkness alike; it elongates behind and above and everywhere, like the setting of a star.

_Shikamaru-kun!_

_Shikamaru-kun_

_Shi--_

“Shikamaru! What the _hell_ are you doing?!”

He startles into consciousness and is confused by the brightness of it all. Where is his star?

What—the sky?

He’s sprawled unto the grass like a wet rag. He turns to look at the one who screamed at him, unnecessarily, since he already knows who it is.

It is Naruto, and he seems angry. Really angry. So angry his face flushes an interesting ( _lovely_ ) fuchsia.

Shikamaru cringes.

_Man_ , he thinks, _what a drag._

“Can you explain to me,” Naruto’s soft, soft voice says, “why I just had to pull you from the river inside one of Konoha’s most dangerous, most deadly forests? At 4:26 a.m? On a freaking Saturday morning?!?!”

He doesn’t yell, exactly, but it still makes him flinch. There’s something like worry in Naruto’s eyes that makes him lick his salt-coated lips regrettably.

“Jutsu…” he says by way of explanation, trying his best to convey that he’s not comfortable with this conversation.

Naruto frowns.

“A jutsu… that requires you to breathe underwater? What?”

“No, Naruto, it’s… it’s a family jutsu. I turned eight yesterday, you already know, and well, in my clan, there are certain jutsus… special scrolls… Naruto. Oi. Stop looking at me like I lost my marbles, will you?”

“How can you ask me to stop looking at you like you lost your marbles when you’ve obviously lost your marbles?! It may not be common knowledge, but I know for a fact that these ‘special jutsus’ you speak of are a thing of the past.”

“Jeez, why are you so damn troublesome? It’s just a jutsu. I thought it was a waste that it was just lying about, gathering dust…”

Naruto huffs, “Oh, please, Shikama--Shikamaru-kun--”

“Just call me Shikamaru.”

“Tsk. Shikamaru, then.”

A portrait of something crosses Naruto’s face before he can categorize it.

“Anyway,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest before he turns to walk away, “next time you plan to kill yourself doing something stupid, try not to do it by drowning here. In case you fail and the water doesn’t do you in,” he turns to look back at him briefly, “the eels would definitely finish you.”

ȹ

_17 days ago_

Naruto takes a look at Shikamaru and knows that he will be the first.

In another lifetime, it would have been Sasuke. In another lifetime, it _had_ been Sasuke.

But not again. This time, Sasuke will be happy and he will live, live even if it means Naruto has to die with that chip on his shoulder for the rest of his life.

He clings to Shikamaru now, and knows that he will be the first. Tonight. He will tell him. He will ask.

He's briefly concerned that he will be denied. But he dismisses the concern. There's something else that has been worrying him as of late, something he's tried to ignore.

Where is he? _Where is he?_

ȹ

“You know what I am, don't you, Shikamaru-kun?”

“Shikamaru. And yes... I know.”

“Then you know about what's inside me. You know what I guard, what I have at my disposal, why the villagers fear me.”

“...”

“But that is not all. You can tell, though. I know you can. That day by the river…”

“...yes. _Yes_. I pledged myself to you under the fathomless skirt of moonlight.”

“... ah.”

“Naruto. What…?”

“‘What are you?’, is it? I’m the Fox.”

“But you're something else too.”

“... Shika. Have you ever wondered how someone like me, an orphan living in a run-down shelter, ostracized by the village at large, without the means or the privileges of clan life, could do what I can? Learn the way I do?

You have. I know because I've known you. Not yesterday or last week or even in this lifetime, but in a different place with different people. You're speculative. Inquiring, wary, flexible.

I know of the day when you first saw blood crawl from your mother's face. I know your father came back one night after ten days on the field and ravaged across Konoha until he arrived a madman at your door. I know.

And I know you know something, something about me, probably since the beginning, that day in class. You’re a Nara, after all, and a Nara is nothing short of stupid. Your clan has dwelled within the shadows; you and your kin know what lies in the darkness, what makes babies shriek into the night like Furies.

Shikamaru does. When his eyes saw those pale-white arms flex, when he witnessed the clenching of his fists, he’d known. Something inside him had wailed, once, strident, eclear and loud. His Nara blood had thrummed inside of him and boiled, and something wizened by the smell of iron in the air had whispered: _YES_

And now he closes the gap between the Fox and the Shadow and swears an oath of olde with a single word: “ _Yes.”_

ȹ

He plans. Naruto speaks—

No, Naruto prophecies. Naruto looks off into the distance, gazing at the shapeless fiends of night, and sings. He invokes monsters dressed like men, a beast with many eyes upon charred limbs, a woman who followed him across continents to dismantle him and put him back together, a man made of silver who did not teach him anything but quickly became a comrade. A boy who shed the blood of his kin upon the soil to water the lilies of the valley. A lover and a brother who left a village; a rival and partner dressed in emerald velvet, black hair and aristocratic features and elegant hands like a prince from a backwards era. A lover. A _lover_ who did not allow himself to love or be loved in times of choler. A lover. A lover who spit upon the face of the _sun_ and cursed the hands that shaped him.

“An imperialist, he had called me,” Naruto says after a long pause just when Shikamaru thinks he won't say anything else. “A fascist. A puppet. And could I blame him? I was working with the hokage and the council. I was training to sit on the chair where all the ones who sealed his fate had sat.”

He looks old then, the Golden Boy. He looks like a man. Shikamaru almost shivers. There is something about Naruto as he is right then and there, a boy of almost nine sitting under a tree, face shadowed by the dancing of their late-night campfire as he travels across space and time that reminds him of his father. Of his father, and the Uchiha, and of Sharingan Kakashi. Is this the price of genius? Is blood the currency with which we exchange for love?

Shikamaru doesn’t know. Something in the soles of his feet and at the back of his head tells him that yes, this is the sacrifice they make to the gods. They must shed blood to safeguard their loved ones. But the gods are cruel, Shikamaru thinks. He looks at Naruto, who’s quiet once again. They made him like this. They broke him, reassembled him, to crush him once more. The blood-fare they demanded could only come from the ones he loved.

_Ahhhhhh, but Shikamaru,_ a voice deep inside his ribcage rumbles, _if we hadn’t, he wouldn’t be here, and you would yearn no more._

He shivers, grits his teeth.

Maybe.

Maybe the gods are not so cruel after all?

ȹ

            _The Golden Boy reigns over the Shadowlands,_

_waiting_

_under a cherry tree_

_to tread across the prairies of his kingdom._

_“Lady of the Night,” he sings,_

_“Hear my song,_

_Hear the pleas of my bleeding loves_

_Hear the sobs that die inside my throat._

_Mother Nyx,_

_soon you shall feast_

_and I and us will lead Your cavalry.”_

 


End file.
